


Will They Tell Your Story?

by Broken_Twisted_Lullabies



Category: Supernatural
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Historical, Blood, Death, F/M, Fighting, Hamilton AU, Historical Inaccuracy, Hurricane, Illness, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Swearing, War, author uses her very limited knowledge of french and spanish, based off the musical Hamilton, everyone is a human, french!Balthazar, how many times can Sam almost die? lets start a tally, non graphic mention of suicide
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-03
Updated: 2017-11-19
Packaged: 2019-01-28 17:29:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12611692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Broken_Twisted_Lullabies/pseuds/Broken_Twisted_Lullabies
Summary: It's always been about leaving behind a legacy after you died and Sam Winchester had been no different in wanting something to out live him. But at the end of the day, the amount of work doesn't matter unless you have someone to tell your story. So will they one day tell his? [Hamilton AU]





	1. "What's Your Name, Man?"

**Author's Note:**

> I got the idea to write this from someone on Supernatural Amino who made a post crossing over the Hamilton and SPN characters. I plan on doing the whole musical, so every chapter will be one song (and yes, I'll be including some of the deleted/workshop versions because I just have to!). 
> 
> Warnings for this chapter: death, non graphic mention of suicide, natural disaster (hurricane), abandonment by a parent, illness, historical inaccuracies  
> Chapter Song: Alexander Hamilton  
> Disclaimer: I do not own Hamilton, that belongs to Lin-Manuel Miranda. Any lyrics taken from the musical don't belong to me.

Through history, one question always remained, bouncing around in the minds of many: _will they tell my story?_ A harmless question, and yet it was all about the idea of having a legacy, of being remembered for something even long after you died. And for many, they had a legacy that outlived them, surviving decades after their passing with monuments and names featured in the history books studied still to this day. They had films or appeared in other forms of media, and people knew their name, knew of their deeds. But not everyone was so lucky. Many became reduced to a name mentioned in the footnote of the stories about the greats, their stories and accomplishments lost despite the efforts of many.

That was the case for one individual, a man by the name of Samuel Winchester. He had been an immigrant with a difficult past that often lead even the most dedicated historians to ask, how did a man like him, a bastard child of a whore and scotsman grow up to be a hero and a scholar?

He was he man on the ten dollar bill, a founding father often mistaken for a president -- but he never was --, is story hidden from the spotlight despite how big his achievements were. Perhaps this was due to his enemies had tried their hardest to destroy his reputation after his death, ultimately leading to America forgetting about him.

But how could they forget how much he overcame in the end, how he rewrote the whole game?

Because he had been born of illegitimate birth, the youngest son of two to Mary Campbell Winchester and John Winchester. Due to this, he was labelled a bastard child, along with his older brother Adam. They lived on the island of Nevis in St. Croix, a small island in the Caribbean, a place where Sam’s hardships had first started. Money had been no easy thing for the Winchester family, and they often struggled to make ends meet, to make enough to feed their sons. It was during the time when money became extremely tight that rumours began to circulate their town, whispers of Mary being a whore passed from ear to ear. In hushed voices. Talk of her previous husband, an Azazel Campbell, whom she had been married to on a different island elsewhere in the Caribbean, only to leave him and later fall in love with John, a charming scotsman. It had been a sudden thing, which was probably why many began to think of her is such horrid ways, sneering at the young women. But Mary didn’t allow for the whispers to get to her. They did however add another title for Samuel Winchester -- he was now the bastard _whoreson._

Still, regardless of money, they did their best to try to make their children bright young men, though the titles the Winchester children carried proved to make things difficult. Many educators turned their noses up at the Winchester boys, showing no kindness and refusing to teach them, and those few who offered prior to the rumours turned them away quickly, not wanting to be tarnished by having taught such children. So for the first few years, both Sam and Adam were taught the basics at home. It wasn’t the greatest, but Sam survived, and often found himself seeking out other means to further educate himself. The youngest Winchester read every book he could get his hands on, soaking up as much information as he could like a sponge.

Eventually though, they had been lucky and John found a willing tutor for the boys to learn. And, for a while, things were perfect. But like all good things in Sam’s life, this happiness was short lived.

At age 10 his father received a letter from his family back in Scotland, stating how after the death of his father, the family estate had been handed over to him. A large sum of money was also in his possession back in Scotland and John hardly hesitated before packing his bags without a word, without a note and leaving. He had had a rather strained relationship with his family prior to the death of his father, most of them disagreeing with him marrying a women like Mary after having met her in the Caribbean, so to having this promise of wealth and comfort handed so easily, John took it. He viewed it as a sort of forgiveness, a welcoming back into the family and after the last few years of hardship, it seemed much more ideal. So he left behind his family to deal with the debts, running back to his homeland and never being heard from again.

The remaining Winchesters were left with hardly enough to survive, even less than what they had had when John was still with them, struggling to keep afloat. Their main provider of money was gone and Mary was now left caring for two young boys as well as making enough money. The absence of John hit them hard and had left Sam feeling hurt and confused by his father’s actions, often spending the first few months crying and asking why he wasn’t coming home. Adam, on the other hand, being much closer to their father became withdrawn and quiet, trying to find a way to step in the empty place his father had created, but at the same time, becoming distant.

But, despite all the pain that came with their father leaving, Sam survived.

Just as things began to look up for the family, Samuel grew ill, having caught some sickness that left him bedridden with a fever. Their mother began to dedicate herself to her youngest, trying her best to help him get better, but being so overworked and tired herself from her two jobs -- she had, since John’s absence, taken on another job cleaning and would often come home tired to the bone because of it --, it was no surprise she fell victim to the illness as well. Because of this, Adam was left trying to make enough money for medicine for his family as well as tending to them in hopes of breaking the fevers before their conditions worsened. But their fevers didn’t break, instead lasting for days, the two lying in their sweat in their mother’s worn out bed, skin pale and shiny.

They were sick for weeks, and by the time Adam had managed to get enough money for medicine, it was still barely enough for both of them. Every coin earned went to getting the medication for the two ill Winchesters, but it hardly seemed to work. After all, the doctor informed Adam one evening after checking on them,  that there was a huge chance they would not survive, bodies too weak to fight against the disease without the aid of medication. But still Adam did his best -- though secretly all the medication when to Sam, not that Mary let either of the boys notice.

After being sick for weeks on end, Sam knew this was it. He knew he was slowly dying as he laid in the bed beside his mother, shivering as chills racked his body. Sweat drenched bed sheets were loosely tossed over the two of them, but they were useless in helping. “Mamá,” Sam whispered quietly, voice barely heard as he shifted weakly, turning to face his mother.

Her breaths were raspy and uneven, barely audible as she struggled to remain alive. Looking at her, a voice in his mind began to murmur.

_‘This is it,_ ’ his fever riddled brain told him. _‘You’re dying.’_ And he knew he was. But he was terrified of the fact that he was, as he was far too young to die -- even though here many died young --, not yet satisfied with what he had done. He wanted to do something more, be more than just the bastard whore’s son, and the thought of not being able to do all that left him feeling scared. He didn’t want to die yet.

But after month and a half of lying in bed with a horrid fever, throwing up anything solid that made it’s way to his stomach, Sam began to show improvements in his health, slowly fighting back against the illness. The medicine proved to be helping, destroying the virus that plagued his body.

“A miracle,” the doctor had murmured, the first positive thing said in relation to the condition of the Winchesters in ages, and Adam smiled weakly, exhausted from lack of sleep and worry that dragged him down the last few weeks. All would be fine, he believed. But Mary, unlike her son, had not been so lucky.

Due to her constantly giving up most, if not all of her medication to her fever stricken child, her body was unable to survive the battle. On her last night, she lay a feverish kiss on her son’s forehead, murmuring to the sleeping boy in her arms, “Te amo hijo mio. Tú hará grandes cosas. Sé que me harás orgulloso,” before closing her eyes for the final time. It wasn’t until Sam woke did he find her dead, her limp body resting beside him. Her arms were still holding him, but no life was left in her body, having succumbed to the fever in her sleep.

That was the first time Sam had cheated death. But it was far from the last time.

After their mother’s death, Samuel and Adam found themselves without a cent as Azazel, their mother’s first husband came and took all of Mary’s belongings, leaving her children with next to nothing. So, with only a few of their belongings, the boys were sent to live with their cousin, a relative on their mother’s side they had never met before. At the age of 13, Sam found himself working at the same place his mother had, but instead helping with clerking as the owner found the young boy had a knack for writing. He spent hours working, clerking and hunched over a desk with his quill scratching against paper. He wrote down the names of every slave sold and traded away, wrote down the goods that entered Nevis, and the goods that left on ships. He wrote until his hands cramped and fingers stained black, but still that didn’t stop him. His older brother worked elsewhere, preferring a job that required more labourous tasks opposed to sitting at a desk and writing.

Writing didn’t bother or upset Sam. He enjoyed writing, could spent hours writing, filling page after page with words about everything and nothing. His mother used to joke that Sam wrote like he needed it to survive, and that without it, he would die, and perhaps that was true in a way.  He wrote when his father left and wrote constantly after his mother died, using it as a way to express his feelings and release the grief that was bottled up. And, when he and Adam returned one day to their cousin’s house to find his body on the ground with a gun in his hand, Sam turned to writing to sort out everything that was happening, trying to find some way to cope with the tragedies in his life so far.

All he had left was his brother and his writing, and Sam cherished both of those. So it was no surprise that when tragedy struck Sam at seventeen that he turned once more to writing to escape.

They were left homeless, without any money and cousin dead, when a hurricane hit the Caribbean, heading straight through their town.

The winds had been fierce, ripping trees out of the ground like they were nothing and tore apart houses and buildings with ease. Water flooded the ground and all around him, Sam watched as the hurricane destroyed his town, watched as friends and neighbours were lost under rubble or in the rising waves. Screams and shouts were heard amongst the howling of the wind and Sam struggled to find some sort of shelter from everything. He dodged pieces of wood that were whipped around in the air, narrowly avoided the rising waters as he called out for his brother, having been separated from him earlier on. The hurricane showed no mercy to the island and Sam, after taking one wrong step while running to help a friend, found himself submerged in icy cold waters. Swept away, he struggled to get air, lungs burning and body aching as debris continued to beat on him. He wasn’t a horrible swimmer, but it was impossible to swim even to the surface.

_This was it_ , he realized. He had survived the illness that had taken his mother, but now he would surely die from the hurricane. His body would perhaps be found by survivors -- if there were any -- having drowned. He was going to die and join his mother, and potentially his brother as well, should Adam have been killed by the storm as well, and if Sam were honest, it didn’t seem like a horrible thing.  

But Sam just couldn’t seem to die.

He survived the illness, and he survived the hurricane.

His body had washed up near a semi submerged house and with what little strength he had left, Sam managed to pull himself onto the roof of the house, out of the raging waters. He had crawled weakly away from the edge, coughing up water from his lungs while still keeping his ears open, listening to the winds. But all had gone silent. Blinking and lifting his eyes, the youngest Winchester stared up at the sky, which was now a yellow, before looking down at the chaos below. There was hardly anything left and he could spot bodies scattered around the debris, most unmoving. Giving out a whimper, Sam curled in on himself, praying for it to all be over, and asking why had he survived when so many others hadn’t.

* * *

Days after were spent trying to find survivors, searching for loved ones lost in the flood waters or trapped under debris. Sam helped with the searching, trying to help find his neighbours and family friends, especially keeping an eye out for his brother, but after a week or so of searching, there were still many that hadn't been found. And Adam was one of them.

Some that were missing had their bodies found some ways away from the town where they had been swept up by the current, having drowned, but Adam's body specifically was never found. That broke Sam further, because he was all alone now, stuck in on a ruined island where everyone he knew or cared about died or left him. Where he looked at the face of death and still survived despite all odds.

He was angry, bitter and miserable about how he had lived through the hurricane without being seriously injured, and Sam often times couldn't bring himself to meet the gazes of neighbours and those struggles to rebuild their lives in the town, because he felt he didn't deserve to be here, be walking among them after leaving a trail of bodies behind him. So, to escape all of the feelings and pain, once more Sam did the only thing he could think of. He wrote.

He wrote day and night, creating a long letter to eventually send to his father - - whom he knew was still alive and well, and might, perhaps, come back home to him if he realized how bad things had truly become - - explaining the details of the hurricane, getting every emotion he had felt during it, and afterwards, down on the page. Sam wrote about how the sky was a yellow colour, how he stood in the eye of the storm, starring out on his damaged town, how before that he had nearly drowned, those that were lost, those who had survived, he even wrote about Adam. He told his father how Adam and he had been separated and even a week and a half later of searching, the older Winchester son hadn't shown up. That none knew if he was dead or not.

Everything flowed out of Sam onto the blank pages before him, words upon words in black ink found in a box that had survived the storm. And when Sam felt satisfied, and not longer felt so lost and helpless in his situation, he sent the letter in hopes of it making it to a John Winchester in Scotland.

While the letter had reached his father, it was sent back without having been opened and instead along the way back to Nevis, fell into the hands of an editor in America, who, upon reading it, were awestruck at the writing. Not only at the sheer amount of pages stuffed into the letter, but also the detail of the hurricane and the writing style, and published it in his paper for all to read  

While awaiting his father's reply, Sam spent his days reading and writing as well as helping his town the best he could. And, in the end, he was approached by a couple men, months after having sent the letter to his father, explaining to him that his writing was incredible, possessing a skill very few had, and offered him a chance to break out of his ruined town and do something with his life. He was given the chance to go to America, a place where you could be a new man, make something of yourself and Sam found himself overjoyed at the idea of it. This was his chance to be more than the bastard whoreson that was trapped in a hurricane torn town and Sam could hardly believe his luck.

The townsfolk realized as well, fairly early on the skills Sam possessed and knew the offer he was receiving was something big, something that never happened so despite the damage and struggle to get enough money, they all collected enough coins to allow for Sam to board a ship and sail to America, to escape and make something of himself.

“Get your education,” they told him, handing the young man the money they had collected and Sam took it with tears in his eyes, beyond grateful. “But don't forget from whence you came,” they added as a warning, reminding him to never forget his roots, forget who he once was and how he got to where he was and Sam nodded, promising he never would forget them, forget everything they did for him and what his mother sacrificed for him.

And as Sam boarded the ship, he was stopped by an old childhood friend of his, Ned. “Sam,” he said with a grin, bidding farewell to his good friend. “One day they're gonna know your name, everyone will.”

Sam had chuckled. “You really thinks so?” He assumed his friend was joking, but for once Ned had a serious look on his face.

“I _know_ so. No one will ever forget the name of Samuel Winchester. _Just you wait_.”

And Sam believed him. He boarded the ship with a used satchel and the few remaining belongs he had, ready to start his new life in America. He would miss Nevis, his town and the people he had known his whole life, but deep down he knew going to America was the best option, especially if he wanted to do something with his life than dying early and becoming forgotten.

‘Mamá would be proud of me,” he thought happily as the ship left and Sam watched the place that had once been his home for 18 years disappear.

Death, it seemed, continued to follow Sam even off the island as many of the passengers on the ship fell ill and died. Sam had done his best to avoid the illness, while trying to help comfort those fighting it, knowing the fear he had felt when being so sick like this, believing death was quickly on its way.

( _“But I just couldn't seem to die.”_ )

But he had survived, and was one of the few passengers who stood on the deck of the ship, staring out at the gleaming outline of New York City, a place that promised chance, hope, and a fresh start.

‘ _This was it_ ,’ he thought. And he knew, staring out at the city in the distance that he was not going to let his town down. They had done so much for him, allowed for him to be more than what he would've been in Nevis and so Sam decided he was going to make sure the world knew his name. He was going to create a legacy that outlived him decades after his death, and ensure the effort his townsfolk had spent on him was not wasted.

Days crept past as they moved closer and closer to the harbour and Sam found himself giddy beyond belief, everything seeming just so much more real the closer and closer he got. Stuck so far in his excitement, he had missed the smell of smoke, and soon his excitement vanished as he turned to find orange flames hungrily leaping across the wooden planks of the ship, consuming everything it could.

Panic erupted on the ship as the crew tried to stop the flames, screams of those trapped filled the air, and Sam realized, once more, death was trying to destroy the piece of happiness he had in his life. But this was the first time, he didn't want to die, didn't want to perish like the other on the ship with his new chance so close. So, as he felt the heat of the flames licking his skin, he made up the decision of what he would do.

Sam knew he had a better chance of survival should he jump off the boat rather than remain on the ship, and so he did just that. He jumped off the burning ship, still holding his satchel and plunged into the icy waters. He swam the short distance that remained from the boat to the harbour, climbing out eventually exhausted, drenched and overall looking like a mess, but wearing a grin.

Because _he had made it_. Despite the constant times death tried to take him, Sam could seem to die and had made it finally to New York. Looking around, he wiped the hair out of his eyes and took in his surroundings.

It was perfect, unfamiliar and strange and Sam loved that.

* * *

While in New York, he continued to write, never stopping, driven by the idea of making this legacy for himself. He attended Princeton College (he had been promised a spot there by the men that had first offered him the chance to come to America) but continued to work harder, striving to eventually get a scholarship to King's College, one of the most prestigious colleges in America. Even when times were tough for Sam, the orphaned immigrant didn't give up, writing day and night until he got exactly where he wanted to be.

In the end, it was his writing that got him out, that brought him to greatness and it was his writing that ultimately led to his destruction.


	2. "Pardon Me, Are You Fergus Crowley, Sir?"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam receives advice he will never follow. Also, enter frenchie, freckles, and honey haired hottie

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter: mention/reference to sexual acts, drinking, swearing, historical inaccuracies.
> 
> disclaimer: any words/lyrics taken directly from the song belong to Lin-Manuel Miranda, and characters to Eric Kripke.
> 
> Also, all french translations are by yours truly so if you spot any mistakes, let me know!

_1776, New York City_

 

It’s only been a couple weeks since his arrival in America, and Sam couldn’t help but fall in love with the country. It had it’s rough edges, but Nevis had as well, and yet, Sam still learned to like those rough parts because he was in America, was given a chance to make something of himself, and even after being here for weeks, he still couldn’t shake the giddiness that clung to his bones about being here. At Princeton, he worked twice as hard as any of the other students, ensuring that he made the folks back home proud of him, but also because he knew how lucky he was. He hardly saw any immigrants from the Caribbean here in America, many of the people here were born in the country or had travelled from Ireland or Britain and had no clue the life they were living, how drastic it was from his own.

While he loved it in America, the one big issue was money. Back home in Nevis, not a lot of people had money, so things were cheaper and you had to cut corners at times. In New York it seemed, everyone had money. Things weren’t as cheap here and as Sam watched his collection of coins shrink each day, he wondered how he’d be able to continue his studies.

But despite that he kept working.

Kept reading, kept writing, and kept pushing himself harder and harder. He took extra classes, slept less, but in the end, knew it would be worth it because he was going to create a name here, leave behind a legacy in America that he would’ve never been able to have back in the Caribbean.

At Princeton, Samuel heard about a young man who many dubbed as a prodigy at Princeton. One of the few students who had graduated in two years rather than the four, and Sam wanted to be just like him. He wanted to be the next Fergus Crowley. And he knew he could. He knew he had the brains and talent to do so, and if he played his cards correctly, could graduate early and join the army in the fight against the British, just like Fergus Crowley had. So Sam made up his mind that he was going to do that as well.

But when he approached the school’s bursar, explaining his plan, the man had waved the young immigrant away, laughing at the idea of it.

“These types of courses are hardly easy,” he sneered, looking down his nose at Sam from where the young man sat. “It requires a certain set of … knowledge to complete it with high marks. I believe it would be better for you if you just continued at the rate you’re at, and finish in the four years like everyone else.”

Sam gritted his teeth, knowing exactly what the man was insinuating. He believed Sam was stupid, that the bastard immigrant from the Caribbean hardly knew enough to even have a chance of qualifying for such a thing, for graduating two years early. Had the man not even bothered to read some of his writings? Or even, perhaps, check to see how Sam had managed to arrive in America _and_ Princeton for that matter? He even told the bursar that, trying to reign down his anger, but that didn’t seem to make much of a difference.

Instead, he stated “While that is a lovely tale, these courses are far from easy. One of the last students to have done this grew terribly ill afterwards, so we don’t allow just any students to do it.”

It was then that Sam saw red. He didn’t care that someone had gotten ill from graduating early. This Crowley man had done so, and Samuel had his mind set on it that he would do the same. But no matter what he did, the bursar refused to help him, and finally he had enough of what the man was saying. He hadn’t come here to be insulted and called stupid for wanting to do something he was more than capable of doing and eventually, his impulsive nature got the best of him. So, where most people would have nodded politely in defeat and leave, or perhaps, mutter a couple curses under breath and exit, Sam snapped and punched the bursar square in the face, relishing in the sweet crack of his nose breaking against his fist (in his defense, of course, he did originally plan to leave without some sort of violence, but after hearing a certain phrase leave the bursar’s mouth that sent his skin crawling, all common sense fled him).

After that, Sam growled out a ‘good day’ and left the bursar’s office without a second glance, door slamming shut behind the ends of his shabby coat.

Presently he found himself now wandering the busy streets of New York City, drawing his thin coat a bit closer to his body. He was still fuming from the conversation he had had with the bursar -- thought at the same time, a bit of worry gnawed at the back of his mind that perhaps he had just ruined his one chance of returning to Princeton. That not only would he not be allowed to ask once more for the extra courses, but they might even refuse him from returning to the college. Huffing, Sam continued to weave through the throngs of people, looking to prove the bursar wrong. He was going to prove to the man that he was more than capable of finishing two years ahead of the others in his classes, and even take part in the new revolution that was just beginning to form in the state.

In fact, he realized, stopping quite suddenly, causing the couple behind him to grumble and walk around his still figure, he was going to do more than just graduate in two years. After all, at least two students had already done it and Sam had a feeling that still wouldn’t do much to convince the bursar of his mistake. No, he would go one step further, earning himself a scholarship to King’s College, showing not only the bursar but everyone else that he was far from a fool.

When a shoulder bumped into his, he was jolted back into reality, no longer in his thoughts. Shaking his head, he began to walk once more, to continue his search when he found himself staring at the back of the head of the man who had bumped into him. Sam hadn’t noticed it at first, when the man offered a quick apology over his shoulder without breaking stride, but he recognized the man. It was the exact person he had been searching for this entire time!

Moving quickly after the man, Samuel chased him down, avoiding others as tried to catch up with Fergus Crowley. Then, right before they arrived at a local bar, Crowley stopped, and Sam managed to finally catch up with him.

“Pardon me, are you Fergus Crowley, sir?” he asked politely, tapping the man’s shoulder. He had a feeling he was correct, but he felt it was best to still check anyways before jumping straight into a conversation with the man who he hardly knew well.

The man in the dark brown coat turns to face him and Sam can see that he is indeed right, that this is in fact Fergus Crowley. He’s slightly different from the one picture Sam had seen of him, his hair much darker, and equally dark eyes holding both unspoken knowledge and some uncertainty.

“That depends,” the man replies smoothly, “Who’s asking?” He raises a brow in a questioning manner and Sam feels his cheeks and ear tips grow red as he flushes in embarrassment.

He had forgot to introduce himself, approaching a stranger and assuming they would have a polite conversation. “Oh! Why sure, sir! My name’s Samuel Winchester, I’m at your service, sir,” Sam begins, bowing slightly, and the man gives a polite nod. The man then seems like he is about to walk away and so he adds, a bit straight to the point: “I have been looking for you!”

At that, the other man shifts, hands going into his pockets. Crowley gives a nervous chuckle. “I’m getting a bit nervous,” he jokes, talking a small step back. He can see this kid is hardly a threat. Two, perhaps three years younger than him, and awfully skinny, the man was sure he could easily escape Samuel should things turn sour.

Sam blinked, before once more realizing his mistake. People in New York weren’t as straight forwards as he was in his speaking, instead choosing to be more flowery and full of unnecessary words and he knew, to fit in, he would have to do so as well. “My apologies, sir. I only meant that I had heard you name at Princeton college, and heard how you graduated in two years, much earlier than the rest of you class.”

Crowley smiled, and perhaps it was just Sam’s eyes, but he could’ve sworn the man seemed to stand up a bit taller, as if proud of his accomplishment.

“You see,” Samuel continued, “I wish to do the same as you did, so I was hoping that you could provide me some advice on how to do it.”

All of Crowley’s previous nervous and shifty demeanor had dropped completely, finally knowing why this kid was seeking him out. He looked at the kid carefully, he appeared to be smart, eyes shining with passion and knowledge he had seen in very few, and although he was unsure exactly how brilliant the man before him way, Crowley felt it would be much harm to provide the young immigrant a couple words of advice to do as he did. After all, it was a bit flattering that after having heard his name, Samuel decided to seek him out so that he could do the same -- though at the same time, he could, if he were less of a trusting person, see it almost as a challenge by a kid who spoke brashly and far too quickly for that of average New Yorkers.

Now it’s Sam’s turn to be a bit nervous.“But, you see, sir, I got sort of out of sorts with a buddy of yours,” he tells him, twisting his hand anxiously. “I may have punched him, it’s a blur, sir.”

Crowley’s easy smile freezes on his face. He punched someone? An acquaintance of his, and then had come to seek advice from him? This Samuel character truly was an… interesting one, that was for sure, and part of Crowley didn’t want to know who the kid punched. It was bad enough he got physical with someone, but depending on who they were, the trouble he’d get in would differ in severity. So he asks the dreaded question, smile starting to droop: “Who was it?”

“He handles the financials?” Sam tells him, it sounding much more like a question than that of a statement and Crowley finds him unable to respond for a moment.

“You...You punched the bursar?” He says, taking in the information and taking another assessing look of the kid in front of him.

Definitely rash in his thoughts, and Crowley knew the bursar to be a rather level headed man  (though there were times where he could be insensitive in his words) so he was caught a bit by surprise at this. Apparently the kid before him had a bit of an impulsive temper, and he knew if he didn’t at least try to help calm it, it would one day lead to his downfall.

But Sam doesn’t seem troubled by what he has just admitted to doing. “Yes! You see, I wanted to graduate in two and join the revolution much like you did but he looked at me like I was stupid, and believe me, I'm not stupid!” Samuel quickly continued, hoping he would not scare away the man now having admitted to punching another man. It wasn’t intentional, he had made sure to point that out, but rather it had been an accident, having grown far too fed up with being dubbed as stupid, all because of his background and status as a penniless immigrant.

“So, pardon me for asking sir, but how did you do it? How did you manage to graduate so fast?” Sam asked eagerly, wanting to know the answer because perhaps if he did, then he’d know how to do it as well, that the motivation that drove Crowley could drive him as well.

“It was my parent’s dying wish before the passed. They wished for me to be the upmost best I could, always striving for greater in life, and so I did just that,” Crowley explained after a moments of hesitance. It wasn’t much for talking of his family to strangers, but the way Sam’s eyes lit up, he had a feeling the kid wasn’t going to tell him words of pity for what had happened so long ago.

“You’re an orphan? I am one as well!” Sam told him with a big smile. He couldn’t believe a man like Crowley was similar to him, and it gave Sam hope that in America, regardless if you were an orphan or not, you could do something grand with your life. You could be someone like Fergus Crowley, and show all those who looked down upon you differently. “Part of me wishes there was a war or something of that sorts so we could prove to everyone else we are far more than what they bargained for, that we are just as good, if not better, than the other men around us!” Sam’s beginning to ramble and he knows this, but he’s excited about this, about proving he’s so much more.

Crowley chuckled slightly at Samuel’s words. He had been a bit shocked at first about him punching the bursar -- it was a bit childish and immature -- but part of him believed there was more to the man in front of him that just his impulsive and brash nature. He had the feeling that shoud Samuel get acquainted with the right people, he could tame himself and do quite a lot of good in his life. So he decided he would be that person to help Samuel, become his friend -- he had the feeling the kid hardly had any, not just because of his loud and brash personality, but also because his accent wasn’t as faint as other immigrants that had travelled and decided to stay in America, meaning he had came recently -- or at least set him on the right path.

He didn’t know exactly why he was doing this, but, maybe it was because he saw some part of himself in the young immigrant or maybe he felt the kid was something different, going to be the big game changer in New York City.

“Can I buy you a drink?” Crowley offered kindly, nodding towards the bar he was originally going to enter by himself.

Sam smiled and gave a nod. “That would be nice.”

The two men crossed the road to the bar, and when they got to the door of the bar, Crowley said, “And while we’re talking, let me offer you some free advice.” He pulled open the door, walking into the bar while Sam followed eagerly behind him, awaiting the advice he would soon receive.

He assumed it would be a trick to convince the bursar to allow him to graduate early, or potentially how to appease to a certain professor there that could grant him high marks. Either way, Sam could hardly contain his keenness.

Which was why he hadn’t expected Crowley’s next words. “Talk less,” the man said, and Sam blinked in surprise, pausing mid step.

He tilted his head slightly, confused. Maybe he hadn’t heard the man correctly over the sound of the other patrons in the bar but had he really just told him to “talk less”?

“What?” he said unintelligently, and Crowley kept walking towards the bar.

Turning to look over his shoulder, the man continued. “Smile more.” He then began to order their drinks and Sam found himself able to move once more, rushing to Crowley’s side.

The man offered him his drink with a smile and Sam felt himself relax. This had to be a joke, just a way to lighten the mood between the two before Crowley really gave Sam some proper advice. But if this were a joke, Crowley didn’t seem to drop it and suddenly Sam had a feeling this wasn’t a joke. This was, in fact, honest advice he was receiving. But that made no sense. Crowley couldn’t be implying it was better to keep your mouth shut and head down rather than speaking your mind! It was foolish, stupid belief! How could you get anywhere in life which such a mentality, believing that if you were to talk less you’d go farther?

But Crowley was far from done it seemed as he added one more bit of advice: “Don’t let them know what you’re against or what you’re for.” He still had that smile on his face and Sam felt his grip on his drink tighten slightly.

 _Idiotic, truly idiotic!_ His brain told him. _Surely a man like Crowley wouldn’t believe in such words, would hold them dear to his heart! How could remaining passive and quiet, letting your thoughts to be only that and not have them voiced allow for a man to make something of himself?_ Sam wanted to make something of his life, but advice like this would get him nowhere, because how could something outlast your mortal life if you don’t speak up against the hundreds of other voices? Part of him was glad they had never met earlier in life, because had Sam followed this nonsense, he would still be back in his island, a bastard whoreson who would die just that, stuck on a hurricane torn island with nothing.

“You can’t be serious, Mr. Crowley, sir,” he told the man, glancing down at his drink and giving a nervous chuckle.

“You want to get ahead, don’t you?” Crowley questions and Sam nods his head quickly. “Well fools who run their mouths off, wind up dead.”

It was at that moment that Sam heard a loud “ _Ay yo yo yo!_ ” from the other side of the bar and turning in his seat, he ignored Crowley to try to find the owner of the voice.

It took a minute or so before he spotted him, a young man who looked to be about his age with hair like the colour of honey. He was standing on a chair at a table with two other men, looking to be in the middle of a story. He was gesturing wildly, one hand holding his drink, the other free, and every so often would pause his story to take a swig before continuing. Something about him intrigued Sam and the immigrant leaned closer in his seat, curiously listening on to the story as best as he could.

The young man seemed to finish his pint and placed it on the table next to another empty one before reaching for a full one.

“Hey, get your own!” One of the men at the table laughed and the honey coloured haired man smirked, taking it anyways.

“I believe I deserve a third pint of  Sam Adam’s, Dean,” he told him, downing half of it in one gulp.  He then picked up where his story left off: “...and as I was saying, those Redcoats better not mess with me ‘cause I’ll show them what happens if you cross Gabriel Novak!” He said loudly, turning his empty hand into a gun like shape and pointing it at his friends, made the sounds of gunfire. They roared with laughter, cheering him on.

Sam leaned in further, liking the sound of this man. Gabriel Novak appeared to be the exact opposite of Crowley, loud and opinionated without showing any fear for what he was saying. Instead he spoke for all to hear about his hatred for the British rule over America and Sam found himself liking this stranger. Maybe, he thought, later I could wander over there and introduce myself, get to know him better because he seemed far more interesting than talking with Crowley right now. He just hoped his friends were just as interesting.

“Ah, oui mes amis! ( _Ah, yes my friends!_ )” one of the other men at the table said, lifting a glass. He was leaning back in his chair, feet crossed on the top of the table. “Nous montrerons ces manteaux rouges qui est le patron! ( _We’ll show those red coats who’s boss!_ ).

The man spoke in smooth french, most likely fluent Sam supposed, and he found himself grinning as he understood every word he said easily. It seemed the friends of Gabriel were just as opinionated and angry with the british as he was.

But while Sam was able to understand what the man said, his friends did not and Gabriel gave him a look.

“Come on Balt, you know we can’t really understand french,” Gabriel told him and Balt shrugged, looking apologetic.

“Desole ( _sorry_ ),” Balt apologized with a smile. “I forget sometimes. But I agree with you. The king, ‘e is far too controlling of not only America but Europe as well, which is why I came ‘ere from so far to tell ‘im: ‘Casse-toi’ ( _fuck you_ ) and bring freedom to America,” the frenchman said in heavily accented english and Sam found himself growing even more intrigued with the men that spoke openly about bringing freedom to America (they were far more interesting than listening to Crowley’s “talk less, smile more” spiel).

“That’s right Zar,” the third man said, face covered in freckles. “Screw the king and fuck the British!” He chuckled, taking a swig. “I ain’t gonna take anymore shit from those red coated fools!”

“Cheers to that!” Gabriel says loudly and they all drink, and Sam silently saluts to him in his head.

“Samuel.” Sam turns, tearing his gaze from the three men to face Crowley once more, who has a look of disdain on his face. “Trust me when I say this but I suggest you stay away from men like them. They will bring you only more problems,” he warns and Sam scowls.

Crowley shouldn’t be one to speak so negatively about them, they’ve done no harm except speaking their minds after all, and besides, he felt Crowley could do a little with speaking a bit more and smiling a bit less. Sam opens his mouth to speak but is cut off by the noise from the table Gabriel and his friends are occupying.

The freckled man is speaking again (the only one Sam hasn’t managed to catch some kind of name for). “Ladies love a rebel.”

Sam turns to look back at them, realizing they had changed the topic from that of a revolution to women. Still, he finds them interesting characters to listen in on.

“Oh really?” Gabriel challenges, raising a brow and the freckled man grins, finishing his mug.

“I mean, after all I did hear your mother last time say ‘come again’!” He crows loudly, grin seeming to grow and the two others at his table laugh. “They better lock up their daughters when I’m around,” the freckled man jokes and a bunch of _ayyy_!s come  from his friends.

They joke around with talk of sex a little longer before Gabriel chimes in with, “No more talking of sex Dean-o, at least not without another round!” He then gets off his chair -- some point, Sam realized, when he had looked away, he must’ve decided to use the chair as its intended purpose was: to sit on it -- and makes his way towards the bar, and coincidentally, towards where Sam and Crowley are.

Gabriel orders his and his friends drinks, glancing back at them briefly before meeting Crowley’s gaze. Then he smirks and Sam realizes the man is a lot shorter up close than he was back at the table -- though Sam is a bit tall, so perhaps it’s just him.

“Well, well, well. Do my eyes deceive me?” Gabriel then shouts the next part over his shoulder. “Zar, Dean, come see who I found! It’s the prodigy of Princeton College!”

Crowley shifts in his seat, not looking interested as the two other men joined Gabriel. While they appeared to be somewhat drunk at their table, up close Sam noticed they were almost completely sober -- that or they held their drinks well.

“Ah, Fergus Crowley! What are you doing in a dump like this?” Zar teases, staring at the man with bright eyes. “Thought you didn’t mingle with imbéciles ( _fools)_ like us!”

They’re all beginning to tease him, and Sam watches them silently, glancing over at Crowley to see his reaction but the man hardly seems bothered, meaning they’ve either done this multiple times, or Crowley truly isn’t one to show many emotions.

“Unless,” Gabriel drawled. “You're here to spread some wisdom, provide us with an insight to what is going on in that glorious brain of yours,” the shorter man purred and Crowley chuckles.

“As if, Novak,” he says calmly.

“Aww, c’mon Crowley. Enlighten us. Let us know what you think. Where do you stand in all this?” Dean adds, grinning and leaning in closer. All three of them look at Crowley, expecting something and even Sam has to admit, he is too. After hearing Crowley's talk less thing, he wants to know as well where the man stands in his beliefs of the revolution.

“What makes you think I'll answer that to you. I know what happens if you speak freely of revolutions, and prefer not to face such consequences. So you can go ahead and shout, but I'm being the more sensible one of us choosing to remain quiet,” Crowley answers smoothly and the three men scowl. “So I'll sit here, and you can talk all you want and we can see what happens next.”

“The revolution eminent, Crowley, so why do you stall it? Why not embrace it and join us?” Gabriel says, tilting his head and Crowley doesn't respond.

Sam's a bit shocked by Crowley's words, his lack of picking a side even more now than when they had first entered the bar. He had hoped that if something was at least presented to Crowley that the man could form even the semblance of an opinion on something, give some hint as to what side he was on, but he remained neutral, believing that this would all blow over as time passed. Most likely, he believed that they were just words, jabs without anything to back it up. Sitting beside Crowley, he's half hidden from the three men but he can still see their faces. They're waiting for Crowley to continue, to say something more or change his mind.

But he doesn’t.

And Sam knows he won’t because sitting here, he’s realized Crowley, although a smart man, isn’t all that smart. He doesn’t seem to stand for anything and that makes something in Sam angry because how could you not stand for anything? Even having the wrong opinion is better than no opinion in his mind. But that’s not Crowley. “If you stand for nothing, Crowley, what will you fall for?” Sam says, intending it to be quiet, but it’s anything but. The bar falls silent, all eyes on him and he realizes he’s said it a bit too loud. Even Crowley is looking at him in mild surprise, while the three others blink, then take a step forwards, leaning closer to him.

“Who are you?” Gabriel says first, squinting at the man, and Sam catches a flash of admiration in his golden eyes.

“Yeah, who are you exactly? Haven't ever seen you around here before,” Dean adds and Balthazar nods.

Sam gulps, shrinking ever so slightly back at their hard, calculating stares. _Oh shit_ , he thinks, not sure what to do now. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did my best with their introductions, and i do apologize if at first they seem a bit out of character. As for Balthazar's french, since in the beginning of the first act he is struggling, there will be times where he doesn't know the english translation and instead will say it in french, or if he gets super excited may flip between french and english but let me know if it seems choppy with him speaking (and as for the "h"s even in english, the french tend to not really pronounce it since you don't in french so yeah...)
> 
> New chapters will be ever two weeks on thurdsays (unless I'm super busy then friday). Also, I'm still trying to figure out someone for Seabury, so if you guys know an SPN character that would fit him, that would be a big help!

**Author's Note:**

> I'm still looking for people to play John Adams, John Jay, both Theodosias, and Samuel Seabury, so if you have suggestions on who you think would be best, leave a comment below! (Lucifer is KG3 if that helps at all).
> 
> Next chapter we'll meet the Rev Trio and our antagonist/foil character!


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